


intimacy (everybody's searching for it)

by adietxt



Category: One Piece
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-07-13 03:03:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16008947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adietxt/pseuds/adietxt
Summary: #6:Sharing scars (physical or emotional).“This one,” Sanji says as he traces his fingers along the raised skin of a scar, one that is carved across Zoro’s torso. He remembers the day the swordsman entered the floating restaurant with his dream in his eyes, blood in his hands. “This one, I know.”Zoro stops Sanji’s hand in his track and laces their fingers together. “You’ve known them all,” he points out.





	1. Bathing together

**Author's Note:**

> As the summary suggests, this will just be a short and simple fic collection around the theme of non-sexual intimacies. I stopped writing this past couple of weeks because of my job's workload, and I'm writing these little things just to start the ball rolling again.
> 
> Based on a 30-day non-sexual intimacy fic prompt I copied a long time ago and can no longer find the link to. I probably won't update every single day, but hopefully this will be updated more frequently than my usual one-fic-a-week schedule.

 

"Stop looking at my dick," Sanji tells the stupid swordsman, scathingly, as he pours a large amount of shampoo into his hand. "This may come as a surprise to you, but I am capable of doing something that  _doesn't_ involve sex."

Zoro pulls the small plastic chair in front of Sanji and sits on it, eyes never leaving Sanji's... well. Prized possessions. Most important organs. Sanji's trying to come up with a better euphemism to stop himself from  _actually_ thinking about —  _fuck_  — _dicks_ and _balls_ and getting hard because of it, but he's running out of words already.

Noticing the reddening flush of Sanji's cheeks, Zoro smirks. "Says the Pervert Cook."

Sanji ignores the comment, most definitely  _doesn't_ blush, and spills all the shampoo in his hands on Zoro's moss of a hair that he must've not cleaned in an entire  _week_. Disgusting.

He runs his fingers along Zoro's head, lathering it, and they fall into comfortable silence. Sanji just began to enjoy himself when Zoro suddenly says, "you know, mine really is bigger."

Sanji aims a well-placed kick to the (definitely smaller) organ, and relishes in the pained groan of the swordsman.


	2. Cooking for one another

 

When Sanji wakes up, there's a plate of burnt... pasta? That long black thing on the plate does  _resemble_ pasta enough to be called one, and Sanji immediately knows the person responsible for this disaster of a dish. There’s only one dumbass on this ship who can burn a fucking _pasta_ , after all.

(Well, _two_ dumbasses, if Sanji is being pedantic, but Sanji figures Luffy would certainly not have the self-restraint not to eat the food _while_ cooking, much less to wait for Sanji to regain consciousness.)

He eyes the spaghetti suspiciously, resigned himself to the fact that waking up to food with questionable edibility made by a growing patch of moss is his life now, and reaches for the plate.

The pain from his shoulder wound skitters along his arm like an electric shock.

He winces, paralyzed for a moment, mostly from the surprise. He waits for his outstretched hand to stop trembling, and it frustrates him, how such a simple task becomes so difficult. It was either him or Usopp, though — the sniper was particularly skilful, and he didn’t have time to push Usopp away — and if presented with the same choice, he wouldn’t have done any different. Better him than Usopp lying on this infirmary bed.

Soul-searching rumination aside — food. On plate. Just a few inches away —

Sanji didn’t hear him coming, but Zoro must’ve been watching him for quite some time, because the swordsman is suddenly there, sweeping in to slide the plate towards him.

“Eat up,” is all Zoro says as he takes a seat beside the infirmary bed, but Sanji hears what’s unspoken anyway. _Get better_.

Sanji does. The spaghetti tastes as awful as it looks unfortunately, and he tells Zoro, “you tried.” What he means is, _thank you_.

Zoro looks away at that. He may look nonchalant to most, but Sanji knows where to look — the clenching of his jaw, the taut tension of his shoulders. He must’ve been worried sick.

Zoro crosses his arms under the scrutiny, like a large cat bristling from a touch. He huffs. “’m not good with cooking.” _I’m not good with waiting._

“I know,” Sanji says. He reaches for Zoro with his good hand — unsure what he exactly he wants to do. He just wants to _feel_ Zoro, a reassurance that they’re there. Alive.

Zoro meets him halfway, tangling their fingers together. “I don’t want to cook ever again.” _Don’t you ever do this again._

Sanji closes his eyes. “Yeah,” he agrees, “you suck at it anyways.” He pulls Zoro’s hand, places their tangled hands over his heart. “Let me cook for you next time.” And what he means is: _I love you._

Zoro presses a kiss on his cheek, soft and light, and Sanji thinks the burnt spaghetti is a small price to pay for this.

 


	3. Cuddling

It’s almost two a.m., and Sanji steels himself for the inevitable.

 _Maybe Zoro gets bored of it this time_ , he tries to tell himself. Maybe tonight Zoro’s tiny moss brain finally realizes that normal humans — _Sanji_ , specifically — can die from heat strokes and he’d remember the existence of his own hammock and wouldn’t —

The sound of feet shuffling by the boy’s bunk room door dashes any hope Sanji’s tried to build up.

The noises grow louder as it gets nearer, and soon Sanji feels his hammock tip to the side to accommodate another body, all bulk and muscles and — most unfortunately — _heat_. There are roaming hands quickly after — a touch at the small of his back, along his side, a brush at his hips — before two large arms encircle him and pull him backwards until Sanji’s back is flush against Zoro’s bare chest, ignoring Sanji’s hushed protest.

The shuffling eventually ends the way it does every night: with a kiss against the back of his neck, which would’ve been an admittedly sweet gesture if it weren’t for the fact that Zoro’s head never moves away from Sanji’s neck for the rest of the night, further adding a few degrees to the already sweltering temperature.

And not even in the sexy way, sadly. Sanji has tried. Apparently getting all involved parties horny doesn’t cool down your body temperature, who fucking knew.

Tonight it’s even worse, as Sunny sails towards a summer island, and Sanji wiggles his body in a fit of self-preservation, trying to test the waters. No dice. Zoro is rock solid against his back, snoring slightly, oblivious that his boyfriend is burning to death.

Sanji untangles his feet from Zoro’s and kicks him in the shin.

It takes a moment before Zoro’s groggy reply comes. “Huh…?”

“No enemies, no marines, we’re safe,” Sanji quickly clarifies before his brawl-hungry boyfriend would get any ideas, turning to face him. “But I’m dying.”

Zoro blinks.

“It was fine when we were docking at Punk Hazard and that other what’s-it’s-called winter island, but Nami-san just told us this morning that the next island is going to be a summer one, and I just,” he tries to cross his arms to make a point about how _serious_ the situation is, but their chests are now pressing against each other’s and there isn’t exactly room for Sanji’s arms. He puts them awkwardly against the swordsman’s biceps as he goes, “you’re a fucking _furnace_ , okay.”

It takes another moment for Sanji’s words to settle in Zoro’s brain, and when they finally do, Zoro scowls. “You woke me up just to say _that_?”

“It directly affects my _well-being_ , you oaf,” Sanji fires back.

“A good night’s sleep directly affects my well-being,” Zoro retorts.

Sanji kicks him in the shin again, because that is so _not_ the point. “You don’t deserve a good night’s sleep after all your stupid body heat has done to my body.”

“Oh, like _you’re_ the best sleeping companion,” Zoro hisses back, voice rising. “You move around so much, sleeping with you is like another sparring session.”

“Then why are we even doing this, Marimo? Why are you still sleeping here?”

“Because I want to hold you in my sleep, shit cook!”

“That’s a stupid reason to — wait, what?” Sanji sputters. The words must’ve fallen out of Zoro’s lips by accident, because Zoro looks like he’d swallow all three of his swords if he could take back what he just said. Sanji could feel his face heat up as the words settle in the space between them, his chest warming against his will. “Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true,” Zoro grits out, and Sanji could see the embarrassed flush of his cheeks even in the dark, like his skin is glowing from the inside. “I like, that. Having you with me — in my arms, and shit. So you just have to deal.”

“Oh my god,” Sanji says, and buries his face in the crook of Zoro’s neck because he can’t handle this right now. Or _ever_. He’s supposed to be the romantic one between the two; he doesn’t exactly know how to handle this… _version_ of Zoro who makes his heart stutter against his ribcage, who says stupid romantic bullshit and _likes to have Sanji in his arms,_  apparently. What the fuck.

He needs to say something back, right? That’s got to be the common courtesy, like I love you and all?

“I — me too,” he stumbles, _knows_ that there must be a blush across his face all the way to the tips of his ears. “I actually, like that too —”

“That was super cute and all, bro, I’m so happy for you two, but can we all sleep now?” Franky’s voice suddenly interrupts from the hammock above them. “It’s three in the morning.”

Sanji freezes. Zoro groans. “You were _listening_?”

“You two weren’t exactly quiet. _Usopp_ is awake, and he’s three beds away.”

“Actually, I have the ‘I-can’t-hear-my-crewmates-flirting-with-each-other sickness right now,” Usopp yells back from his hammock, visibly shaking. “Please don’t kill me.”

“I did not want to interrupt,” Chopper chimes in, “but it would be in everyone’s best interest to sleep now, as an eight-hour sleep is important for your health…”

“I changed my mind. I would like to die now, please,” he says as Chopper drones on about the health benefits of a good sleeping habit, and Zoro pulls him further into the embrace, hand sliding up the back of Sanji’s head. Sanji is going to sleep now just so he doesn’t have to listen to Chopper’s nagging anymore and _not_ because it’s getting comfortable pressing up against Zoro’s furnace of a body. Definitely not.


	4. Holding hands

“We’re not that kind of couple.”

“Hmm,” Zoro hums, noncommittally. “Okay.”

“We don’t do these things. The whole —” Sanji gestures vaguely between the two of them.

“Holding hands,” Zoro helpfully supplies.

“Holding hands. Right.” Sanji shifts the shopping bags he’s holding to his left hand just so it wouldn’t hang awkwardly between him and Zoro, but now he’s starting to wonder what to do with his _right_ hand.

“It’d be impractical, anyway,” he goes on, “walking around while doing,” he motions between them again, “you _know_. I have supplies to buy, and you’re,” he pauses, and does a once-over. His boyfriend is walking beside him, carrying nothing, doing nothing with his _hands_. Why is he not doing anything? What do people usually do with their hands? He passes Zoro the shopping bags. “You’re pack mule.”

Zoro lifts them easily with one hand, that _oaf_. “Since when did you get to decide that?”

“I just did. Not the point, by the way,” he quickly adds before they digress into another argument, because this is actually important to establish, if they’re really going to do this — this _relationship_ thing properly. “The point is, you have shit to carry, because that’s the only thing you’re good at, and I have fruits and produces to buy, and what if a marine suddenly spots us? Can’t really do shit when your hands are occupied and all.”

“Okay,” is all Zoro says to that.

That doesn’t leave a lot of room to reply, so Sanji doesn’t. Instead he tries to focus on getting through his mental shopping list. Bread, cheese, lettuce… they need to stock up on ground meat too, Luffy managed to break into the kitchen last week after all, and — _what the fuck do you do with your hands, holy shit_.

Turns out that maybe people have their hands occupied at all times because nobody knows what the fuck to do when they aren’t.

He steals a glance at Zoro’s right hand, completely free of shopping bags. He looks at his own free hands.

It’s not that they’re _that_ kind of couple, but it seems, well. It seems like a _waste_ , when neither of them are doing anything at all —

He feels a hand slip into his own, holding him firmly.

Sanji trips over his own feet.

Thankfully Zoro is literally holding his hand, so he doesn’t fall head first onto the ground, but he figures his face right now would still look like he did based on how _red_ it must be.

“I’m not, we don’t —” he needs to pull his hand away, why isn’t he pulling his hand away?

“We don’t do this thing, yeah, heard you the first time,” Zoro says, shrugging calmly as if he’s not _literally holding Sanji’s hand_. “Look, whatever you’re trying to say, it’s dumb. You’re not doing shit, I’m not doing shit. We’re not _this_ or _that_ kind of couple, whatever that means, we’re just — _us_.”

Zoro squeezes Sanji’s hand at that, and Sanji feels like his heart is being squeezed, too. “Oh. So you don’t mind…?”

“I never said I did,” Zoro says, and pulls Sanji further into the sea of people. “Makes you feel closer, anyway.”

“Oh,” is all Sanji says, because his fingers are tangled with Zoro’s now, and they somehow fit perfectly, like puzzle pieces.

They walk like that, hand in hand, and Zoro’s shoulder bumps lightly against Sanji’s. “‘s nice,” Zoro mumbles, after a moment, like an afterthought.

Zoro’s hand is warm and dry, and it feels like it’s wrapping circles around his heart, so Sanji says, “yeah. It’s nice.”

 


	5. Watching the other sleep

Zoro isn’t a romantic person.

That’s more of Sanji’s department.

He _is_ , though, staring at the Cook’s sleeping form.

It’s not that he considers watching someone sleep romantic. It sounds kind of creepy, now that he thinks about it in that term, but there’s something… sentimental, he supposes, in the way his heart feels like it’s collapsing at the sight of Sanji, hunched over the table, head nestled comfortably on his his arms, completely oblivious to the world. Sanji’s chest rises and falls, and something under Zoro’s ribcage feels like it’s going to burst.

It’s late, nearer to dawn than evening, and there’s a notebook laid forgotten near Sanji’s head, half-opened. Zoro recognizes it as one of the Cook’s receipt books, the familiar scrawls of Sanji’s handwriting filling the pages of the notebooks, and Zoro figures Sanji must’ve fallen asleep in the middle of planning for the crew’s meal.

That sounds like Sanji enough — working himself to the point of exhaustion for the sake of others.

The thought unsettles him in a way he can’t exactly describe. Zoro watches Sanji’s sleeping form, a slight crease on the Cook’s eyebrow, and he feels like he’s facing an unseen enemy. _Helplessness,_ he recognizes. There is no battle to fight. There is nothing he can do for Sanji.

Sanji stirs in his sleep then, his frown deepening. Sanji groans, a pained whine escapes his throat, and before Zoro could stop himself, he slides his hand up the base of the Cook’s neck and buries it into Sanji’s hair.

“Oi. ‘s alright,” he says, unsure if Sanji could even hear him, but feeling the need to say it out loud anyway. His thumb starts rubbing Sanji’s hand in small circles. “I’m here.”

Sanji hums at the touch, like a _purr_ , almost cat-like. The crease on his forehead smoothens, and Zoro feels like something heavy in his chest has been lifted.

Zoro isn’t a romantic, but _fuck_ , he can’t take his eye off Sanji.

He stays like that for a moment, indulging himself, warmth spreading through his chest at the sight. This is beyond romance, he thinks — this is an achievement, an _honor_ , that he could be here, seeing Sanji sleep. Sanji has always been a light sleeper, especially with his observation haki; the fact that he gets to see Sanji sleep right now is because Sanji is _letting_ him. That he feels _safe_ around Zoro, the same way Zoro finds solace in Sanji’s presence.

A particularly strong gust of wind blows into the galley from the door, and Sanji stirs again in his sleep. Zoro watches a shudder travels up Sanji’s spine, and an idea flashes across his mind.

There is nothing he can do with the nightmares — those are Sanji’s fights. But this — this is something he can do.

He takes a seat beside Sanji, close enough that their sides are pressed against one another, and throws an arm across Sanji’s back. He then pulls the Cook closer, and Sanji makes a contented sound as he feels Zoro’s body heat through the contact.

“G’night, Cook,” Zoro says, pressing a kiss to Sanji’s temple, and closes his eyes.

(Robin finds them in that position the next day as she walks into the galley for some morning coffee. Sanji flushes red, sputters, and kicks Zoro in the shin for being _an embarrassing mosshead with zero manners_ , but he doesn’t pull away.

Sanji has always been the more romantic one, after all.)


	6. Sharing scars (physical or emotional)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: references to canonical child abuse.

 

“This one,” Sanji says as he traces his fingers along the raised skin of a scar, one that is carved across Zoro’s torso. He remembers the day the swordsman entered the floating restaurant with his dream in his eyes, blood in his hands. “This one, I know.”

Zoro stops Sanji’s hand in his track and laces their fingers together. “You’ve known them all,” he points out.

“Not the way I know this one. Considering you have so many of _these_ ,” Sanji replies, using his free hand to trace another scar right above Zoro’s hip. They’re lying on a bed in some dingy motel room, its springs too old to carry their weights, and the bed dips in the middle, tangling their limbs together. Neither of them is complaining. “It’s hard to keep track.”

“Dunno why you’re so interested in them,” Zoro huffs, and Sanji can feel the swordsman shift even closer, burying his face in Sanji’s hair, almost puppy-like. “They’re not important. The battles are.”

Spoken like a true brute. “I like knowing them anyway,” Sanji argues. “It’s like knowing a part of you, especially —” he has moved his free hand, almost instinctively, to hover over the scar on Zoro’s eye. “Especially when I wasn’t around to stop it from happening.”

There’s a light blush blooming across the bridge of Zoro’s nose. “Now you’re just fucking with me,” he sputters, “I told you it’s embarrassing, and you’re —"

“— the only person who knew how you got these, I know,” Sanji grins, his smile gaining a mischievous edge. “Relax, I’m not going to tell anyone just yet…”

“Or _ever_ ,” Zoro cuts in.

“I don’t think I’ve agreed to that,” Sanji teases. “Maybe tomorrow, when Nami-san is free —”

There’s a press of lips against his, silencing. He would never admit it out loud, but Sanji loves it when Zoro tries to shut him up with a kiss.

“I guess,” he says when they part, “I do like keeping these little parts of you for myself.”

The mood is light, comfortable; he thought Zoro would just reply with another banter. But he doesn’t, and when the silence stretches on, Sanji looks up to meet Zoro’s gaze. There’s an emotion Sanji can’t quite put his fingers on, flit across Zoro’s expression, like a quiet ache. Like longing.

“Well, I don’t like it,” Zoro suddenly says.

Sanji pauses, hand already halfway tracing another one of Zoro’s scar. He pulls it away, sputtering, “I didn’t know — you never — "

Zoro quickly shifts, sensing Sanji’s change in mood; he props his head up on one hand so they're now lying side by side, and leans closer. “I didn’t mean I didn’t like it,” he says, entwining their fingers together again. “Not like that.”

Sanji scowls. “Normal people use _words_ , dumbass.”

Zoro huffs. “It’s just — it’s stupid —”

“I’ve always known you’re stupid, go on —”

“Shut _up_. I meant —” Zoro touches him then, rests his palm on Sanji’s cheek. “Here I am, laid bare, for you, every inch of my scar, every inch of _me_. But you —” his hand trails down Sanji’s neck before pausing by his side, calloused palm against unblemished skin. “You don’t have a single scar you can speak of; not one I get to know.”

Zoro looks away then, clearly embarrassed, his cheeks tinted red. The sight makes something in Sanji’s chest light and warm, and Sanji knows, in that moment, that he trusts the man in front of him — not just with his life, but with his past; one that felt like another life entirely.

So Sanji covers the back of Zoro’s arm with his palm and brings the swordsman’s hand to rest against his temple. “This is where my brothers hit me. We were six. I was trying to feed a stray cat.” He thinks of the small kid on the floating kingdom, clutching at his bloodied head until his hair starts sticking with one another — “That was the first time they hurt me.”

It takes a moment for his words to dawn on Zoro, and when it does, Zoro’s expression visibly falls. “Cook —”

“This one,” he continues, dragging their hands towards the side of his neck, “was the first time they kept going until I blacked out. They’d never gone this far, before — they always went all out, don’t get me wrong, but usually, they would —” he has to remind himself to inhale, then, because it’s suddenly difficult to breathe. “I don’t know. I think this was the moment they realized they didn’t even care if I died.”

When Sanji guides Zoro’s hand towards his stomach, it is trembling. He stops right under his ribcage. “This is Niji’s favorite spot, I think. He’s kicked around it so many times I’ve lost count. Maybe it’s because he knows it’s the only place that could get me to throw up.”

There are no scars on these places — not one they could see, at least. But Sanji could feel every single phantom bruises against his skin, black and blue, and sometimes when he closes his eyes long enough, he could feel the little kid with the iron mask inside him.

There’s a press of lips against his skin, and when Sanji opens his eyes, Zoro has leaned down to kiss his abdomen, right along the phantom scar. There’s nothing sexual about the gesture; instead it makes Sanji’s throat tight and warm.

Zoro moves up and presses a kiss against his neck, before moving on to his temple.

“That was —” Sanji says, suddenly embarrassed, and he’s _not_ blinking back tears, “that must’ve been really — _boring_ , talking about these imaginary scars —”

“Sanji,” Zoro cuts in, and Sanji shuts up, surprised by the use of his name. Zoro runs a hand through his hair and pulls him closer. “I like knowing this part of you. Especially when I wasn’t around to stop it from happening.”

There are no scars, but there’s a throb under Sanji’s skin, bone-deep, one he’s been carrying ever since he was a kid. “Thank you,” he says, because that’s all he could muster now, and because he means it. “Thank you.”

Zoro kisses him again, and Sanji thinks he’s beginning to heal.

 


End file.
